


Her Rock Amidst The Splash

by HogwartsToAlexandria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Blindfolds, Coping Mechanisms, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/M, Held Down, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Masochism, Implied Pain Play, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Melt Down, Sub Natasha Romanov, Trauma, baths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/pseuds/HogwartsToAlexandria
Summary: Her yearning for pain, it scares him. She knows that, he's told her in more ways than words. Sometimes she goes too far, but this is the first time he's actually stopped her.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 66
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Her Rock Amidst The Splash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flipflop_diva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipflop_diva/gifts).



> _BDSM - Masochistic sub asks for more pain than they really want._ and why.

Steve's breathing is the only sound Nat can pick out, darkness the only cocoon she has as he bears down on her. 

"No." He repeats, his voice firmer than usual. She imagines his face is also grimmer than it should be in their bed. She can't actually tell with the blindfold but Steve Rogers was never really hard to read. Not for her at least. "I'm stopping here." He adds, and Natasha feels her chest expanding around a gasp. 

It hurts. It's not any different than if he'd slapped her in the face. Except it is, because that is precisely what Steve refuses to consent to. Refuses to give her what she needs. She  _ has to— needs to feel the sting, the warmth that alights all at once in one specific square inch of her flesh, and then another and then another still… _ Steve won't slap her, spank her, whip her any more. 

Not tonight. It's the third time he's repeated his refusal and Nat only just realized it's because she kept begging him through the no's. 

She didn't hear herself. 

"Natasha," Steve whispers, and it's his fingers, thick yet gentle, sliding down her cheeks, it's only that touch, that finally makes Natasha register the tears her face is covered in. She cried through her pleas. 

Every sensory input she gets right now is Steve's. His hands closed around her wrists by her head, his breath ghosting over her chin, his thighs bracketing her waist as he stays on top of her. That's the signal, one of them at least. 

Her yearning for pain, it scares him. She knows that, he's told her in more ways than words. Sometimes she goes too far, but this is the first time he's actually stopped her. The first time he's used that dom voice of his that he so rarely brings out. 

Natasha floats, her mind swimming through dozens of thoughts, and flashes and the blindfold still wrapped around her head is a mercy for that. She doesn't need to see the torment that must be distorting Steve's features. It's a mercy for him too, he sees much too much of her torture already. 

"Love," Steve calls, what could be hours later. His voice is the softest balm as Natasha struggles. 

The ghosts, that's how Natasha refers to them in her mind, they keep coming at her, exhausting her efforts to back to the surface. To come back to Steve. Ghosts of a past she can't unsee. Ghosts of a past she both chases and flees. 

Red predominates. It floods her mind like torrents of a rage and a pain and a shout inside the four walls of her old room. It rushes against the barriers she's built. It crashes against her memory as she tries and tries and tries to block the slice of her truth. 

She'll never be free. 

"Natasha!" Steve exclaims then. How long since he last spoke? How long since she last heard him? 

He pulls at her, brings her to a seated position, cradles her back and neck in his arms and hands. Buries his face in her hair and whispers. 

"I need you to come back to me, and I need it to be right now. You breathe, in and out, like me," 

_ In. _

_ Out. _

_ In. _

And,  _ Out.  _

"Count on my fingers, to three, then, I'm pulling the blindfold off you." Steve whispers again, putting his too big hand in her too frail-feeling one. 

It's so much effort. So much concentration. Blood is everywhere pounding, at her eardrums and behind her eyelids. She finds his thumb and straightens it. 

_ One _ . 

She finds his index finger and with a few tries, her hand shaking as she does so, she manages to point that one towards her too. 

_ Two. _

The last one is the most difficult, the last wrench, the one with the consequences attached. 

"Three." Steve confirms when Natasha holds onto his three fingers, her grip unchecked. 

She hears herself cry this time. The light blinds her. The concern and love and safety of Steve's blue eyes gentle hands make her sob. 

She squeezes her eyes shut and grapples for him. 

"I'm sorry, I'm… Steve… I can't…" Natasha sobs, her tears soaking Steve's night shirt - that soothing blue one he decided to wear to play tonight, like he knew she would need the softness of it against her cheek, like he knows right now that his arms closing around her are her last chance. 

"Shhh," Steve brings their foreheads together. 

"It's always the same place," she says. Her voice is its own spectre, raspy and painful as it forms the words. "Always the same red, everywhere. And the darkness, I can't let it go." 

She looks up into Steve's eyes, aware now, that she must look as miserable as she feels and yet all she sees in his eyes is the same love and readiness he always has when he looks at her. 

"You can," Steve tells her. "Not today, but you can. You will." 

She doesn't believe him. Can't, believe him. But God, she wants to. 

"You know what we should do now?" He asks when Natasha shivers, his fingers stopping their slow circles over her shoulders. 

"Bath?" 

Steve smiles, and nods, and takes both her hands. 

"Come with me, we'll run it together." 

In reality, Steve does everything. He runs the water for the bath and waits until it's actually warm before plugging the tub. Then he turns around and pushes the door of the bathroom until it's only standing ajar — they never ever close doors inside the house — and kisses her forehead. Then finally he arranges the fluffy towels and robes around the sink to pick up later. The last thing he does though, thoughtful as Steve always is, and even more when she's free-falling like tonight, is pull out the scented bath oils that soothe her the most. 

But it's one-handed that he does all this because his other hand is still firmly clasped around Nat's. 

An anchor. 

Her rock.   
  



End file.
